Shadow of the King (46 page)

Eadric, his woollen cap held tightly between nervous fingers, shifted uncom-

fortably from one foot to the other. He was looking at the floor, scrutinising the

dried rushes. He dared not look up, look at her white, pale face.

Clearing his throat, Bedwyr moved forward, poured a goblet of wine, offered

it to her. Gwenhwyfar took it, held it between her hands. Eadric could see the

white there also, stark, against her clenched, tense knuckles.

The abbess, a good, kindly woman, bent over Gwenhwyfar, encouraged her

to drink. “Take something, my dear, it will help.”

Shaking her head, Gwenhwyfar offered the cup to her. “No, no I want

nothing. Thank you.” She tried a smile. It would not come.

“You are certain,” the abbess asked, addressing Bedwyr, “that this informa-

tion is the truth?”

He could only shrug. “I have no reason to doubt it. What this Saxon has told

me fits with what I remember.”

Gwenhwyfar stood, smoothing down her gown, her hands travelling over

the plainness of her simple-styled dress. She had found quiet here at the abbey,

quiet, but not peace. The sisters were kind and caring, doted on young Archfedd,

respected Gwenhwyfar’s wish for solitude, fussed her without being obtrusive.

In the gentle abbess, a woman who had a natural gift for understanding the

needs of others, she had found a lasting friend.

She could have returned to Durnovaria, stayed, lived within Geraint’s

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 7 7

household, but the small community of sisters with their gentle way of life

suited her the better, and the abbey to which they were attached was a short

distance only from the bustle of that busy town. And the companionship of

Enid, should she want it.

Gwenhwyfar tipped her head back slightly, closed her eyes. She felt tired,

drained of energy and life. A husk beaten of its kernel, an empty shell. Her

body felt heavy, weary. She could feel the pulse-places throbbing, every muscle

crying out, for want of rest and sleep. She steadied herself, aware of her fragility,

opened her eyes, regarded the Saxon, Eadric.

“I do not doubt that which you have told me to be the truth. For what

good reason would your lady lie?” She managed a weak smile. “And I could

never quite believe Arthur was gone.” She wanted to scream, rage, curl into

herself and weep. Wanted to be alone, to think. So much to think on! This had

turned her world, her life, again on its heels. All this long, long while trying to

accept Arthur was dead—finally on the edge of believing it—and now to learn

he might not be! To know when last the Lady Mathild had been with him,

his body had carried a faint heartbeat of life. That to her later secret-acquired

knowledge, he had survived.

Bedwyr was watching Gwenhwyfar intently, understanding the thoughts

that must be gathering and tumbling in her mind. Understanding how her

heart must be leaping and juddering. Had he not thought and felt the same?

The glorious knowing that what they had assumed to be the truth was not

so—and the immediate following of seemingly a thousand racing questions.

All beginning with why. And following close behind, the dismay that now she

would not be his.

And how would the Supreme Governor react when he heard this news of

Arthur? If he heard. Ought he be told? Ought anyone?

Glancing at those in the room, Bedwyr pondered on that. The abbess would

say nothing. Eadric had already proven his worth by holding his tongue until

now. No one else knew, save Mathild who was dead and Lady Winifred and

Cerdic, who had for their own reasons, whatever they were, held silence. And

those people with whom Arthur sheltered. He was standing, chewing a torn

nail, worrying on more crowding questions. What to do now? How to react?

Who to tell? Who not to? How to let Gwenhwyfar go from him?

Gwenhwyfar must have read his frown. “I have my own mind to set straight

before deciding how many others to bowl over with this news.” She moved

to his side, placed her hands within his, said, “Even if this is true, and Arthur

2 7 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

is alive, there can be no recrimination upon what happened between us. We

acted in honour and faith.”

He attempted a grin, did not manage one.

Gwenhwyfar kissed him lightly on his cheek. How hard he must be taking

this! How hard were they all? Christ in his mercy, it was as difficult to swallow

down this medicine as had been the hearing of Arthur’s death!

“What will you do, lady?” Eadric summoned courage to ask. He felt nothing

but relief now his part was ended. He could return to Cuthwin’s farm, wed

with Gundrada, raise a family. Aye, and happen one day tell his grandchildren

the story of how it was he who had told of King Arthur’s return from the

dead.

“Do?” she said, her fingers twisting, as so often they had these past months,

her wedding band. “Do?” She laughed, high, a hint of crazy, uncontrolled

quivering behind the sound. “I have no idea.”

Thirty-Eight

The baby, a girl-child, had finished suckling, was drowsing, her

mouth a perfect rosebud shape, eyes closed, content, against her

mother’s breast. Ragnall did not want to disturb her, this perfect, beautiful

little girl, the product of her own womb. The boy, Aurelius Caninus, was

playing before the hearth-fire with a set of wooden animal figures carved

for him by his father, humming to himself a childish, monotonous tune.

Caninus was almost two years old, a sturdy boy with the mischief and spirit

of a prized hunting dog. They had called him that, “little whelp,” for his

grit determination. His father was so proud of the lad. As was his grandsire.

Of course Ragnall loved her son, but her daughter completed the circle,

brought her the fulfilment of all possible joys. Her beautiful, golden haired,

blue-eyed angel.

Reluctant, Ragnall lifted the babe, settled her in the cradle, over her shoulder

warned Caninus that soon it would be time for his own bed. The boy ignored

her, continued setting his animals in line. The baby’s arm jerked in a muscle

reaction, slept on. Her mother stroked the fluff of pale hair, covered her care-

fully, steeled herself to tackle the boy. Always there was a fuss at bedtime.

Tears, screams, shouts, and flying fists. “Just a few more moments,” she warned,

knowing the moments would stretch on too long. Easier to give in, let him

have his way, although she knew it was spoiling the child. He would be better

as he grew, more manageable.

Eventually, it took over an hour to settle him, by which time Ragnall felt

exhausted. She considered going to her own bed, but Cadwy had promised he

would return this day. It was already dark.

She sat with her sewing, quiet before the crackle of the fire, listening to

the gentle sounds of sleep from her children. Slept. A log shifted, startling

her awake. Her sewing had dropped to the floor and for a moment she was

disorientated, uncertain. Other sounds? What had wakened her?

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Sounds beyond the closed door, horses, men’s voices. Ragnall hurried to

her feet, ran to the doorway, flung it wide as Cadwy was about to do the same

from the far side. They laughed, embraced, each glad to see the other. Five days

Cadwy had been gone.

Ordering a slave to fetch fresh wine and hot broth, Ragnall fussed her

husband, took his rain-damp cloak, removed his boots, sat him before the fire,

added more fuel.

She did not ask what cause had been behind his urgent summoning by

Geraint of Durnovaria. Cadwy would tell her in his own good time.

He discussed it much later, after the lamps were growing low, as they lay

together in their bed, having celebrated his homecoming as husband and wife

should. Ragnall listened, intrigued, astonished. Incredulous. Her first question

had been the same as theirs, those men whom Geraint had called together to

talk with himself, Bedwyr, and Gwenhwyfar. Cadwy, Mabon, and Ider.

“But if Arthur is alive,” she said, “why has he not come home?”

“There can be but two reasons.” Cadwy answered, pulling the delight of her

naked body closer to his own. “Either he cannot, or he does not wish to. “

“I would go for the first of the two,” Ragnall responded with surety, settling

her head comfortable against his chest. “Arthur was a king, he would not

abandon us.”

“A defeated king.”

“Huh! One lost battle against all those he had won?
Na
. I tell you, for some

reason he cannot get home. Bad wounded—happen he has lost a limb, a leg or

arm. His pride would not let him be seen as a maimed man.”

Cadwy nodded dubious agreement, smoothed his wife’s black hair. She

could be right, probably was, but why had Arthur never sent word? He began

to drift into sleep, murmured some half-answer to a question Ragnall had put

to him, jerked awake as she prodded him with her elbow. “I said, is there no

clue as to where he might have gone?”

Cadwy yawned. It had been a long day, a long ride. He wanted to sleep.

Closing his eyes, he began to relax, enjoying the sensation of warmth that was

creeping through his body. “He was left, assumed dead, with the woman and

her child. He may be with the Ladies, with the one called Morgaine.”

Ragnall jerked upright, her hair falling to hide her breasts and the scars on the

skin. “Morgaine!” she echoed. “Did you say Morgaine?”

Cadwy’s eyes snapped open. “Aye. A woman with a boy-child.”

“Named Medraut?”

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“How should I know?” Irritable, the comfort of drowsing sleep vanishing,

Cadwy gathered the bed-furs closer against the cold that her sudden move-

ment had caused. “I doubt they knew the lad’s name. Why? Do you know

of her?”

Excited, Ragnall grasped his shoulder. “Aye,” she said, quick, breathless. “If

it be the same Morgaine, then aye, I do. So did Arthur!”

Interested, catching her headiness, Cadwy pushed himself up onto one elbow.

“Bedwyr said he thought, from her manner and her grief, the woman knew the

Pendragon. She was a healer, he said. So who is this Morgaine?”

Ragnall sat with her fingers pressed against her cheeks and nose. “My God,”

she breathed, slowly releasing her held breath, “it must be she!” She laced

her fingers, rested her lips against them, thinking, rapidly trying to remember.

“Morgaine was the Lady, the priestess of the Lake at Yns Witrin. I talked with

her often.” She flashed an apologetic glance of guilt. It had been forbidden to

speak with the pagan priestess, forbidden to enter the realms of the heathen.

“She was kind to me.” Even now, even after Cadwy was mending her confi-

dence in herself, Ragnall felt the need to place some defence for actions of the

past. Cadwy waved her, impatient, on. He had no care for the petty, blinkered

rules of a hag-riddled abbess. “Go on!”

“Morgaine had a son. She bore him at the abbey. A few of the sisters guessed

who she was. They kept that knowing well from Abbess Branwen, of course!”

Ragnall searched her memory, fought herself back to that time. It was difficult

to remember accurately the good things that had happened, so few were they

between the many harsh sadnesses. “Morgaine left when the child was but a

few days old. She had let me hold the babe.” Ragnall smiled broadly at that

pleasing memory. “He was a fine, healthy boy. Morgaine told me his father

would have been proud of him.”

Cadwy snorted. “A bastard brat, aye, I guessed as much.”

Ragnall pursed her lips, stern censure crowding her expression. “Aye, a

bastard born. With the king as his father, what else would he be?”

Cadwy had only half-listened. “These whores who bed for pleasure, never caring

about the consequence of a…Jesu, what was it you said?” He sat up, kneeling,

grasped Ragnall’s arms, almost shook her. “The king, his father? Arthur?”

Ragnall nodded.

“You are certain?”

Again, a nod. “She told me so herself.”

“Arthur has a living son?” Cadwy’s voice betrayed doubt.

2 8 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Patient, Ragnall nodded a third time. Her husband was taking an annoying

while to comprehend all this!

“If Morgaine was his mistress, this boy is his son. Jesu and all the Angels

in Heaven!” Cadwy’s face grew vigorously animated. “Arthur is more than

likely to be with her!” He released Ragnall from his grip, swung his legs from

the bed, began hurriedly fumbling for his clothes. “We are closer to finding

him—should we decide to search! I must inform my Lady!”

“Hold, husband.”

“Bedwyr need know of this also, and Geraint. We had elected to do nothing

as yet—put out a few spies, ask a few discreet questions in Gaul. Geraint was

all for writing to that pedantic old letter-scribbler, Apollinaris or his brother-

by-law, the one who had ridden with Arthur, but we reckoned if they had